Wang Anyi - The Song of Everlasting Sorrow

Gradually Wang Qiyao came to expect these surprise visits and would get ready for them. She made sure that the preparation was not obvious lest he think the less of her. She still wore casual clothes, but they were neat; the apartment was still somewhat messy, but not too much so. She still had to eat lunch, and the food was always simple, but not coarse. She stripped her life of nonessentials. As to the washing of hair and other such intimate chores, these were performed either very early or very late, at times when Kang Mingxun could not possibly turn up. As a result, his surprise calls ceased to wreak their accustomed havoc — much to his regret. But the energy she had spent in protecting herself did not go unnoticed, and he felt terribly sorry for putting her through that.

Wang Qiyao’s pretend act was intended as a screen to prevent him from barging straight in. It was, however, a screen that she was prepared one day to forgo, its function analogous to the red veil worn by the bride at a traditional wedding, which the groom lifts up at the end of the ceremony. During this period, Wang Qiyao became more reticent than she ever had been. The two of them would sit together, speaking little. By sunset they had gone over only the same familiar ground, each anxious not to commit any error. In the past they had had little to say but found plenty to talk about; now they had plenty to say but were unwilling to speak — it was as if both were lying in wait, each one waiting to ambush the other. Day after day, they watched the sun move from one wall to the other, their hearts half-concealed in the dark, with no clue to the present or the future. As for hope, though Wang Qiyao did harbor some, she could not act on it. Any action on her part would be tantamount to senseless sacrifice, a selfless offering of herself. Kang Mingxun, who had no hope, could have launched an attack at any moment, but he was far too afraid that it might end in disaster. They sat in silence, each smiling wryly inside, wordlessly imploring the other to give way. Yet who could afford to give way? With only one life to live, neither was willing to roll over for the other.

The stove had been dismantled, leaving a large mark on the floor. The hole in the window where the flue used to be had been pasted over with paper, a relic of the winter now past. The spring sun was lovely as usual and, as usual, inefficacious. The smiles on their faces barely masked their bitterness. These desperate smiles hinted at a sort of assurance — but not the kind each was looking for from the other. With all paths of escape cut off, they stuck to their guns. Both positions were entirely defensible, but this in no way improved the situation. Each was acting out of selfinterest — but a heart driven by self-interest is still a heart and, having a heart, one must feel the joys and sorrows of life.

One night, two patients came for shots, one after another. As soon as Wang Qiyao had seen them off, she heard footsteps again on the stairs. She wondered if this could be yet another patient, all crowded into one evening. It turned out to be Kang Mingxun — the very first time he arrived alone at night, unannounced too. They both felt somewhat awkward. Her heart was throbbing. She offered him a seat, made tea, plied him with candies and watermelon seeds. Hurrying back and forth, she scarcely stood still for a minute.

Kang Mingxun said that he had gone to call on a friend but found the gate at his friend’s house padlocked. Then, turning around to go home, he discovered he had forgotten his own house key. His family and all the servants were off at a Shaoxing opera and, although his father was home, he did not want to get the old man out of bed, so he thought he would come by to wait until the show was over. Kang Mingxun rambled on and on; busy getting the snacks ready, Wang Qiyao took in only half of what he was saying.

“What opera did you say you were going to see? Which theater is it at?” she asked.

Kang Mingxun repeated his story, this time even more haphazardly than before. Wang Qiyao got even more confused, but pretended to understand. After a few minutes, she inquired anxiously when the show was to start, afraid that he might be late. Realizing how hopelessly entangled the situation had become, Kang Mingxun gave up trying to explain. Wang Qiyao was simply rummaging around for something to say; seeing no response from him, she too gave up pursuing the matter. They sat in silence and the room grew quiet. They could hear the neighbors moving about. The flame had gone out, and the acrid smell of unburnt alcohol filled the air. Footsteps came up the stairs. Wang Qiyao wondered with a start who else could be coming on this peculiar evening that seemed so full of foreboding. The caller was a party official from the neighborhood coming by to collect the communal fee. He did not even step inside. The two of them listened intently as the man made his way back down the stairs, step by step. He caused them some alarm when he stumbled over a step, and then, after all was well again, they exchanged a smile that seemed to bring them together momentarily. Between them there was a tension, as of an arrow cocked on a tightly stretched bowstring.

Wang Qiyao took Kang Mingxun’s empty teacup out to the kitchen. From the rear window she saw in the distance the red star atop the Sino-Russian Friendship Building, and asked herself in a prayerful mood, What is going to happen this evening? When she brought the refilled cup back into the room, Kang Mingxun was still sitting woodenly facing the window, rapt in thought. Wang Qiyao placed the teacup in front of him and took a few backward steps to her own seat. She realized they would never get through this night, and even if they did, a day would come that it would be impossible for them to get through. All this time Kang Mingxun sat facing the window, which, with its curtains drawn, made it seem as if he were looking into a wall. His pose suggested that he had something to say. . if he only knew how to begin. Their silence told of words unspoken; they simply didn’t know where to start.

At last Kang Mingxun opened his mouth. “There’s nothing I can do,” he said.

Wang Qiyao laughed. “Do about what?”

“Everything,” he replied.

Wang Qiyao laughed again. “Just what is it that has you at such a loss?”

Her laughter was in lieu of tears. So, these were the words she had been waiting for so patiently! Nevertheless, not only did she find herself perfectly calm; she was even tempted to put him through the wringer a little. She resolved to make him lay everything out in unequivocal terms, even though any explanation he had to make was no longer relevant to her. She wanted the satisfaction of embarrassing him. Having waited this long, she was entitled at least to this much recompense.

Laughing again, she said, “So there’s nothing you can do about it. . does that mean there’s nothing you can say either?”

Kang Mingxun did not have the nerve to face her. He turned away — now it was Wang Qiyao’s turn to watch his neck turn scarlet.

She stepped up the assault. “Really, there is no harm in telling me. I’m not going to use it against you.”

But at this point her voice quavered and her eyes filled with tears, even as she persisted in smiling.

“Say something!” She taunted him. “Why don’t you say something?”

Kang Mingxun turned to face her and said imploringly, “What do you want me to say?”

Wang Qiyao was stunned. She could not recall, for the life of her, what it was that she had wanted to get out of him. She could no longer keep up her indignation and, in panic, tears came streaming out. Kang Mingxun’s heart melted. That cloudy afternoon so many years ago came back to him, and it was as if Second Mother had turned around to face him and he was looking into her tear-streaked face.